


Like the Fretful Porpentine

by HarveyWallbanger



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, And therefore deserve flowers, Drunk Sex, I tried to incorporate details from the show's plotlines into my filthy porn, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-28
Updated: 2017-04-28
Packaged: 2018-10-25 01:53:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10754286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyWallbanger/pseuds/HarveyWallbanger
Summary: It's just like a play you once saw.





	Like the Fretful Porpentine

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this story comes from a line in Hamlet.  
> The mere fact of the story's pairing may prove disturbing to some readers, so please, use your discretion.  
> I am not involved in the production of Gotham, and this school is not involved in the production of Gotham. No one pays me to do this. Do not try any of this at home. Thank you, and good night.

It's in the set of his brow. The tension in his jaw. Frank can always tell a distance man. The hardness in Jim's eyes. The trapped look he sometimes gets. It hasn't yet dawned on him, but it will, soon. He won't make it to forty-five without the knowledge that he's a drinker of the kind that can't stop. It's a marathon for him, not a sprint. He has endurance. He'll keep running, because he can, until, one way or another, he'll run himself into the grave.  
“This was your father's favorite,” Frank says softly, looking down at the bottle like it's a new baby.  
There's no expression on Jim's face.  
It's like communion wine, Frank wants to tell him. Blood of my blood. He can't do that, though. The humor of something like that would be lost on Jim, have him running for the door. He might be wet, in this way, but in every other respect, he's dry.  
He's dry, so he must irrigate himself. Frank watches him over the rim of his glass as he's pretending to savor the scent of the whiskey: Jim downs his drink. Doesn't even let the taste develop. So that it's just a vague impression of something noxiously ardent blazing in his throat.  
Frank takes a sip, then refills Jim's glass. “It's a funny thing,” Frank says, “but across cultures, alcohol's referred to as a kind of water- 'fire water', 'agua ardiente'- vodka, 'little water'- 'uisce beatha', the water of life- but the word 'alcohol' derives from 'kohl', which means 'powder'.”  
“That's fascinating,” Jim says blankly, his voice roughened by the liquor.  
Frank smiles indulgently. If Jim were a push-over, he'd be disappointed.  
“It's things like this that bring us together, as a people. We all see things in fundamentally the same ways, no matter where we're from.”  
“If this is a salespitch, get to the point.”  
Sadly, Frank shakes his head. “I don't want to sell you anything, Jim. I have absolutely no agenda.”  
“That's exactly what someone says when they have an agenda. Why are you here?”  
Without being asked, he pours Jim another drink.  
“I answered this question.”  
“Not to my satisfaction.”  
“Well, what do you want to know, Jim? My life is an open book.” Smiling convivially, he pours Jim another drink. How many does it take, now, before Jim starts to feel something? When he does ,will he be angry? Will he be sad? Will he be inquisitive? Will he miss his father, with his heart wet? Is he suggestible? Is he looking for something to rage against? Alcohol, like all water, washes clean. What's left is what we truly are.  
Or won't he change, at all?  
Frank pours himself another drink.  
Of course, for Frank, there's no longer a division. On either side of the bottle, he's the same man. They're all distance men, in the Gordon family. Run far enough, and you'll learn that you can't outrun yourself.  
Of course, there's nothing Jim wants to know. He's waiting not to be enlightened, but convinced.  
Frank sighs. “After Peter died, I didn't go away just because I was made to. And I haven't stayed away this long because I was biding my time. I was ashamed, Jim. Can you understand that?”  
“You let them kill your brother. Why wouldn't you be?”  
“They didn't just kill Peter. They killed a part of me. And I thought-” he looks down, looks up again, “I thought that you and your mother would be better off without me. That if I stayed, I might do something stupid, and then, you and she would have to pay the price.”  
“Something stupid like what you're proposing we do, now.”  
“You're not like me, Jim. You won't hesitate. You're the man I never had the stomach to be.”  
Jim sits back. “We take down the Court, and then, what?”  
“It doesn't have to be a tool of the elite. It doesn't have to hold sway mercilessly over the lives of the people. It can be a force for justice, again, real justice.”  
Jim doesn't speak. He holds out his glass, but he doesn't speak.  
He doesn't speak again. He just keeps drinking, without showing any indication that it's effecting him.  
Finally, Frank says his name. He has to say it a couple of times before Jim reacts.  
“Jim,” he says gently, “I'm going to bed.”  
Jim just nods.  
Frank goes to his room, and as far as he knows, Jim goes on drinking.  
Distance.  
When Frank's awakened, he's not even surprised. He was expecting something like this. A scene. Accusations. Breaking glass. Maybe tears.  
He only finds broken glass, though. It didn't break by falling onto carpet. Frank says nothing about that.  
“I'm sorry,” Jim rasps, still seated, bending limply at the waist to stir his fingers among the pieces of a shattered tumbler on the floor.  
“It's all right. I'll sweep it up.” As he goes to the kitchen to get the broom, he hears Jim apologize again. “It was an accident,” he says gently, sweeping up the glass.  
When he returns, Jim is still there, slumped forward, his hands hanging between his knees. He puts his hand on Jim's shoulder, and Jim starts.  
“Jim. It's late. Why don't you go to sleep.”  
“Yeah,” Jim says, and lets Frank help him up, lead him to his room. “I don't need help,” Jim says, but still allows Frank to walk him to the bed, sit him down.  
“Get some rest,” Frank says, and turns to go, but Jim holds his arm.  
“What am I really doing here?” Jim asks.  
“You're not my prisoner,” Frank says, “I'm not going to make you do anything you don't want to do.” He sighs. “But you have to understand, these are dangerous people. What I'm asking you to do- to help me do- is simple, but it's not easy.”  
“I know,” he says, as though only then does he truly know it, and is heavy with the realization.  
Frank sits down next to him, feeling as heavy as Jim, but with fatigue. He wants, suddenly, to say something both inane and unnecessary, like It'll be all right, but it wouldn't be for Jim, anyway. Instead, he repeats that Jim should get some rest. That's enough for today. Tomorrow, he'll think of something better.  
He starts to stand, but Jim again grabs his arm. Frank swallows a breath. Even drunk, Jim has fast reflexes.  
Jim looks at him. There's something behind his eyes, like a shape sunk to the bottom of water too deep or too murky to be able to accurately describe it. It's late, and Frank is tired, so it's beginning to seem like a good idea to just ask Jim-  
When Jim kisses him.  
Frank was beginning to worry. Sometimes, though, a job does itself.  
He slips his hand around Jim's neck, up, under his chin. He gives his cheek a consoling caress, then pulls away. When Jim looks at him, it's not with the expected boozy confusion, or even the sobriety of horror, but with disappointment.  
“I'm sorry,” Jim says.  
“It's all right,” he says, careful not to sound too much like anything in particular. He leaves Jim sitting on the edge of his bed, looking like he could remain there forever. Without anymore glasses to break, maybe, he just might.

When Frank returns from the city, the next evening, Jim says that they need to talk.  
“All right,” Frank says, “Drink?”  
“No. No thank you.”  
He gets the bottle, anyway. “Don't worry,” he says, “It's for me.”  
They sit in the living room. A fragment of glass on the floor winks at Frank from across the table. He pours his drink, watching from under his down-turned eyelids, as Jim watches him. It's a small one, so he passes it to Jim. “Hair of the dog,” he says lightly, and gets up to get another glass. Jim frowns at him, but still picks it up.  
“What do you want to talk about?” Frank asks.  
He takes a sip, approximating the pinched expression of one not used to drinking. Frank feels his mouth twitch as though to smile. “Infiltrating the Court isn't even simple. We can't do it by ourselves. We need others.”  
“Like who?”  
Jim sighs. “I have an idea. It's risky, and I don't even know how it would work, but I think that we should reach out to Bruce Wayne.”  
A lesser man would have choked on his drink. Frank just says, “If you think that's wise.”  
“Why not?”  
“Bruce Wayne is still a child.”  
“He has money, connections, through his name.”  
“You know him; I don't. If you think it's worthwhile, I leave it in your hands.”  
Jim's expression softens slightly. “That's not all I wanted to talk about.”  
“Oh, no?”  
“I did something inexcusable last night.”  
“It's all right, Jim. I understand.”  
“It was wrong.”  
“I've done worse things.”  
What Jim's expression says, now, Frank isn't sure. “So have I.”  
“You've been through a lot. Not just in the past day, but in the past twenty-five years. I'm not entirely blameless. You were right. I should have taken care of you and your mother.”  
Jim says nothing. His glass is empty. Frank refills it.  
Finally, Jim says, “There are things I can't ask of you. Things I shouldn't ask of you. You're not my father. You're not my father, but you're close enough to him.”  
“Don't confuse my abandoning you with his dying. I'm the one who left. He didn't have a choice. He was the stronger man.”  
“I'm not like him,” Jim says quietly.  
“You are. You have his strength, his courage. It's all right.”  
It's too much, but he puts down his glass, sits down next to Jim, puts his arm around him.  
Sometimes, though, too much is enough. Jim falls against him like a marionette whose strings have been cut.  
Jim reaches for his glass. Frank refills it when it's empty. When it's again empty, Jim puts the glass on the table- with too much force- Frank stops himself from wincing- turns, looks at Frank with his unreadable eyes, says quietly, “Stop me.”  
“It's okay, Jim,” he says.  
Now, Jim isn't so drunk he can barely stand, he's not half-asleep. He's awake. He feels awake.  
If you know the right thread to pull, you can convince a man to do anything. Frank hadn't considered this particular thread, but sometimes, the unexpected ones unravel the most easily. He kisses Jim softly, slows him down. Jim's come looking for punishment, but he's not going to get it from Frank. It'll keep him coming back. Hitting his head against a wall because he thinks he can make it into a window and smash his way to freedom.  
He kisses the whiskey out of Jim's mouth, then keeps going.  
“Close the curtains,” Jim says, his voice rough, almost sleepy. Frank does, then sits down again. Jim lets Frank push him back, down onto the couch. For reasons he may not even know, he's decided to trust Frank.  
“What do you want?” Frank asks him, smoothing back his hair, caressing his face.  
Jim shakes his head. “I don't know.”  
Before Frank can say anything, Jim kisses him again. He holds onto Frank tightly, his hands spread across Frank's back. His touch is warm with desperation, the overall effect is only pleasingly antiseptic. If Frank wanted to, he could easily view this as an act of charity as much as much as anything. It must be something in their genes. Alcohol isn't the only thing they become dependent on. The greater addiction is to the things that can destroy them, to willingly embracing them. He's just helping Jim become more himself. Frank doesn't need to become anymore himself. He's already as fully himself as he wants to be.  
“This isn't good for my back,” he says sheepishly. Jim looks at him. Jim has a way out, if he wants it. “We could go to bed.” Jim has a way to stay right where he is, if that's what he wants.  
Sitting on opposite sides of the bed, they undress themselves. Whether it's a matter of habit, or emerging regret on Jim's part, Frank doesn't know. It makes it seem like one of them is a whore, like this is a matter of business. Which one? If you have to ask, it's usually you. Maybe both of them. Though, Frank's not selling anything; just renting it out.  
In the sheets, he holds Jim, kisses him slowly, lets Jim move against him. Jim's hands are steady on his shoulders, as though fixed in position on a steering wheel. It might be too much- but too much seems to be what it takes with Jim- but Frank shifts his weight, moves his hand down. Jim cries out as though wounded.  
“Are you all right?” It's a stupid question, but one Frank must ask.  
“Don't stop,” Jim breathes, still holding onto Frank, one hand on the back of his neck. He kisses Jim's mouth, feels him fall to pieces, choking out trembling breaths as Frank touches him. It's probably long overdue. He comes in Frank's hand, one arm wrapped around him, the other hanging off of the bed, as though flung into space.  
It's impossible not to look on him with tenderness. Frank had been avoiding that. If you start really thinking about things, you'll start feeling something. And then, everything will become impossible. You'll totally break down. Do it too many times, you may never start up again.  
It's shocking, how grateful Jim is. How he continues to hold tightly to Frank, as though he feared that Frank would be taken away. How he touches Frank. It's as shocking as his need was, now, in retrospect. Frank's thinking. This is always a mistake.  
Jim turns him onto his back. Able to act, now, because he's seen the worst. His needs have been taken care of. He trusted Frank, and he survived. It's only partially out of duty that Frank lets his eyes slip shut languorously, as Jim kisses him; sighs as Jim runs his hands down Frank's body. He'd thought, initially, that Jim was only seeking comfort- of a kind that he couldn't find in a bottle or an anonymous screw, or even in cleansing acts of violent revenge. There's something else, there, sly and low, creeping over his body, with Jim's touch. It's permissible, now, because he owes Frank something. Maybe it's just play-acting, after all. Maybe there really are two whores, here.  
He wraps around Jim, holds tightly to his hips. Jim kisses his neck, moves down, sucks his nipples, one hand over Frank's heart. Sucks his cock, makes him moan. It's not pantomime anymore. It's his body doing it, now. So, Frank can check out. He has his hands in Jim's hair. His golden hair. He got that from his mother. The Gordons have always been dark.  
If it's Jim who's been play-acting, that means that Frank can tell the truth. Jim's just the idea of his nephew, someone he's trying to protect and use, in equal measures. That idea can slip right off of his body, like clothing. Out of Frank's mind. Naked, Jim's just a man. If he's making Frank feel these things, it's all right for Frank to feel them. Both of them are nobody, here.  
He takes his time. As shocking as all the rest is that Jim seems to be enjoying himself. It has to be a trick. Frank's being fooled. They're fooling each other.  
Jim doesn't swallow. That would be far too much.  
He gets back into bed with Frank. They hold each other. They kiss. They don't speak. With only the slightest awareness that it's happening, Frank falls asleep, his arm across Jim's chest.  
The next morning, when he wakes, there are more apologies. Jim was drunk. He's been going through something. He's lost people. He's had to do things he didn't want to do. Finally, perhaps growing desperate, Jim tells Frank about Hugo Strange- the hypnosis and the drugs- about Jervis Tetch- just hypnosis, in that case. Jim shakes his head. Whatever happened to him, it was wrong. It'll never happen again. How can Frank forgive him?  
Frank forgives. Never mind how.  
That taken care of, they're free to lie to in bed naked together, both absolved, no other obligation in the world. They talk about the Court. Frank listens to stories about Bruce Wayne that he's already heard, learns things about the butler, Alfred Pennyworth, that weren't in the dossier. Is given a survey of criminal life in Gotham- the corrupt politicians, the mad scientists, the gangs of delinquents with no interest but chaos, the serial killers, the common crooks. Jim apologizes again. Frank must already know a lot of this. All of this and more, is what Frank knows, but it's good to listen to Jim talk about his life. Gotham's crime, its life, is Jim's life. After a while, they get out of bed, get dressed, go through the motions of normal life. It's deep into the night before they start drinking again.  
Jim starts slowly, but still drinks as much as he did the night before. He sleepwalks to Frank's bed. He lets Frank undress him. At first, he just wants to be held, and Frank idly begins to wonder if he's going to have to revise his plans. He pets the back of Jim's head as though it were a small animal, trying to think of a way to justify Jim's continued existence to Kathryn if he fails to turn Jim. With a start, he realizes that it's the first time he's really put the thoughts into words. Soon, though, whatever was driving Jim the night before possesses him again, and he pulls Frank on top of him, kisses him, hot and messy in inebriation. They fuck twice. They sleep until noon the next day. This day will bring no surprises.  
Anyone else would congratulate himself on a job well done. The first thing that Frank learned, though, was: acquiescence is a process, not an act. When someone truly gives in, it's only after a long, slow numbing- so that they're not fully aware of what they've done until it's over. Jim would seem to have gotten well on his way there, all on his own, but Frank will keep working on him. It's only prudent.


End file.
